


FrUK Collection

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Hetalia Drabbles [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Celebrity AU, College AU, M/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Relocated from my general Hetalia drabbles work; all the short FrUK pieces I've written, usually for tumblr prompts. Multiple AUs, some canonverse, lots of FrUK. Rating varies by piece.





	1. That College AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU"
> 
> Francis is too cool for underwear

Between school and work and countless essays on this and that Renaissance artist, Francis was just getting into the shower by the time 2:45 am rolled around. It was something he had looked forward to all day and since it was so late, there was no one else in the bathroom. He let out a relieved groan as the hot water cascaded over him, slowly filling the room with steam.

So of _course_ that was when the fire alarm went off.

But to anyone who knew Francis, it came as no great surprise that he simply refused to get out of the shower. No doubt the alarm was once again due to some inept dunderhead setting their Hot Pockets on fire because they couldn’t keep their microscopic attention span on something for more than three minutes. He wasn’t leaving the shower for that.

So when the RA came up short on the list of people who should’ve been huddled out on the sidewalk—and had confirmed evidence from Francis’ roommate Roderich that he WAS in fact somewhere around here—he was cursing his friend through a blue streak. He wasn’t at all surprised to pound in the door of the bathroom and see Francis’ telltale purple flipflops sitting beneath his towel on the rack.

"Goddamit Bonnefoy!" he snarled as he hauled the Frenchman out of the shower. "Get your sorry ass out on the sidewalk with everyone else!"

"I was in the _shower_ ,” Francis said, as if that explained everything that needed to be said.

"Get down those stairs before I kick you down!" Gilbert howled, at his wits’ end with this entire job.

"You want me to jump and run over every false alarm?" Francis complained as they Gilbert hustled him down the stairs.

"Yes, I do!" he exclaimed, a purple vein jumping in his pale forehead. "That’s why they’re called RULES you French ass, not SUGGESTIONS. When the fire alarm goes off, you GET OUT."

"It’s a complete waste of time!" Francis objected, turning to look at Gilbert. "And you KNOW it! Don’t even deny it!"

"As far as you know this building is on fire, now get out!" Gilbert demanded, shoving the scantily clad young man out the door. "One of these I"m actually going to have to fine your stupid ass!"

"It’s _cold_ ,” he whined as his bare feet hit the pavement.

"Then go flirt with a firefighter and get his jacket," Gilbert snapped. "Just go stand with everyone else and stop being such a pain." Muttering about the injustice and the need for a mass student demonstration, Francis stalked over to the sidewalk.

"Beilschmidt!" Gilbert resisted the urge to start bashing his head against the brick wall of the dorm building. "Beilschmidt you better have a name for this." Arthur Kirkland approached with the wrath of a king, waving a finger around, his dark green eyes flashing furiously as if he were intent on locating Ghandi’s killer rather than who had scorched their frozen pizza.

"Look Kirkland I don’t have time—"

"I want NAMES Beilschdmit!" Arthur demanded, one hand forming a claw as he glared up at his RA, who was a good half a foot taller, at least. "I want to know what Neolithic degenerate is responsible for this UPSET!"

"Dammit Kirkland, it’s not my job to have a freaking police report on the issue! What do I look like to you, Sherlock Holmes?"

"You don’t look nearly intelligent enough to be Watson, let alone Holmes," Kirkland sniffed, crossing his arms over his olive green and brown argyle sweater vest. "But that’s beside the point. I was in the middle of an essay that will revolutionize the way schools teach Shakespeare—"

"Sure it will," Gilbert breathed in an undertone. Kirkland ignored him.

"—and I want to know _who interrupted me_.” Gilbert leaned in and took a deep breath. “Bu—what—are you _sniffing_ me?” Arthur blustered furiously.

"You smell like rum," Gilbert observed.

"That’s not—"

“ _Dammit_ Kirkland! I told you you’re not supposed to have hard alcohol in your dorm room!” Gilbert shouted, shaking his fists at the sky.

"I didn’t! And it was only a bottle! And you’re avoiding the question!" Arthur argued.

"Look I already had to deal with Bonnefoy—" He jerked a finger in Francis’ direction just as the indignant "Bonne _foy!”_ corrected his pronunciation (Bone-eh-foi vs. Bon-fwah), which Francis somehow managed to always hear, no matter if he was seemingly engaged in something completely different, “—I’m not dealing with you too.”

Arthur followed his direction as was the natural reaction to someone pointing something out. He caught a brief sight of a naked blond, clad only on a fluffy white towel, before his gaze was back on Gilbert, ready to carry on with his righteous rage about the fire alarm situation. But just as quickly, he jerked his attention back to the towel-clad student.

"That _bastard_ ,” he exhaled with force. No on—absolutely _no one_ —had any right to be _that attractive_. _Especially_ not wearing nothing but a towel standing on the sidewalk amidst two dozen other students in rumpled pajamas, stifling yawns and rubbing their eyes. What sports did he do to make his back look like that? Of course, no sport in the world could change such a base, such an elegantly formed figure. It was just _illegal_ , or it _should’ve_ been and _oh God he was turning over this way_ and the only thing Arthur’s eyes could focus on, besides the man’s beautifully sculpted chest, was the trail of golden blond hair creeping down from his bellybutton and dipping below the line of the towel clutched loosely around the blond’s waist. Were they blue, his eyes? No, one word couldn’t be sufficient for something that looked like that! ‘The color of the sky after a storm’ perhaps, or ‘a violet floating down a stream in the woods’ or even ‘the TARDIS as seen through a kaleidoscope’.

"Look if you’re blaming Francis it wasn’t him," Gilbert began to defend him, apparently not noticing the nature of Arthur’s focus. "That moron wouldn’t get out of the shower even if the building really _was_ on fire.”

"The what?" Arthur blinked and forced his attention back to Gilbert’s much less artistically formed face. _If one ever was in need of a face to compare to a summer’s day…_ He shook his head. He was having a conversation. Right? With the RA, yes? Yeah. That was it.

"The fire," Gilbert said. "The thing you’ve been ranting at me about for disrupting your essay on Freud or whatever."

"Who wrote the what?"

"You’ve had too much rum, you lightweight," Gilbert said just as Arthur finally slapped some sense back into himself.

"I mean yes! The fire! And my essay! You better have some names for me by the time we get back inside," he warned uselessly. "Take care of it Beilschdmit!" With flaming cheeks and his cracked dignity cradled in his arms, Arthur strode off as if that had gone exactly according to plan.

"The fuck is his problem?" Gilbert asked as Francis meandered back over to him.

"He’s English, mon ami, what other problem does he need?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/101686667585/drabble-based-off-this-post-between-school-and)


	2. That College AU part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cont'd from last chapter

Arthur hadn’t stopped thinking about the fire alarm since it had gone off two weeks ago.

Forget how the alarm itself had disturbed his essay on Shakespeare (which he still scored an A on), the events of the evacuation were disturbing his whole _life_. He couldn’t walk anywhere on campus anymore without his eyes swiftly scanning the area for a particular blond head. He could never decide whether he wanted to see Francis or not, because while there was certainly the thrum of anticipation in his gut when he looked, whenever he DID see Francis, it gave him such a jolt of anxiety he couldn’t relax until there was distance between them again. The man had marched an army into Arthur’s mind and was occupying it only semi against Arthur’s will, slowly consuming what felt like his sanity.

He had to find a way to talk to Francis.

But every time he had that thought, he was overcome with anxiety because that meant having to _talk_ to the man. To that stunningly beautiful, distant Adonis who was shamelessly _French_ (but no one was perfect). Even so, he came to the conclusion he just _had_ to because with any luck, talking to Francis would reveal some hideous fault of his that would turn Arthur off him altogether and the problem would be solved.

But how?

The easiest thing, of course, was to casually strike up a conversation about someone’s choice of study. He didn’t know what Francis studied. Maybe he could catch him in the kitchen…but Arthur actually had passed Francis in the dorm kitchen once or twice, and he always seemed so _busy_. Preparing some grand meal with the best cheapest ingredients he could find, intently focused on what he was doing. Arthur quailed at the thought of trying to interrupt him then. Maybe if he knew what Francis’ area of focus was he could…could what? he thought with derision. Hang around the building in hopes they “accidentally” ran into each other? And say what? “Oh I see you study in this building here how lovely”?

Awful.

He tried to tell himself things weren’t that bad, but on the way up to campus for lunch with Kiku, he caught the sound of Francis’ voice and nearly snapped a vertebrae turning his head to see the Frenchman strolling down the sidewalk, talking on the phone. In his split second of gawking, he slipped on a patch of ice and nearly went sailing into a bench. Fortunately Kiku caught him before then.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” he asked, frowning lightly.

“Fine,” Arthur said hastily, dusting himself off. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad that Francis hadn’t seen that, or irritated that he hadn’t noticed at all. Arthur had nearly brained himself on the concrete because of that git, the least he could do was watch it happen. In the end, he settled on neither and just hurried Kiku along, hoping he could get them past the scene before Kiku ever noticed there had been someone else around.

He had it bad.

So he had to think of something. At last he settled on trying to figure out Francis’ fields of study, because at least then he could…recon the building or something. Maybe there was an event or something going on he could…mention…or something.

Therefore, he went to the only person he knew who knew anything about Francis Bonnefoy: RA Gilbert Beilschmidt. Arthur and Gilbert were hardly friendly, but Arthur was desperate and of all the people he knew, Gilbert was the most likely to have information about Francis. That was why, on this fine evening, he was lingering in the RA’s doorway, his knuckles poised just above the wood. At last he took a deep breath and tapped lightly on the door. Gilbert groaned loudly and rubbed his temples when he turned and saw Arthur.

“What is it, Kirkland?” he demanded. “I’m not starting a manhunt for whoever has offended your ‘proper British sensibilities’ this time. I’m studying for a physics exam and—”

“It’s not that,” Arthur said hastily, interrupting out of sheer nerves. Usually he did manage to adhere quite well to accepted manners. He knew that much at least, even if he couldn’t refrain from scathing comments.

“Then what is it?” Gilbert asked.

“I though…er, that is, I wondered if you…might possibly…that is to say, if you knew…” How was he here, debasing himself for this tiny scrap of knowledge about some man he’d never spoken to? When did it come to this? Arthur wondered if he ought to wring his life out through the window and hope it looked better dried off.

“Spit it out, Kirkland!”

“…personal favor…” The phrase appeared somewhere in the midst of Arthur’s trying to find a way to best pose this question without it looking like he was doing what he was doing (seeking out personal information about Francis Bonnefoy). A delicious grin spread across Gilbert’s face and he slowly spun his chair to fully face Arthur, looking positively wicked. Arthur was half surprised fangs didn’t glint beneath his upper lip.

“Well look at this,” he crooned in his rough voice, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the arm of the chair. “Mr. high and mighty Arthur Kirkland wants a personal favor from lil’ old me.” He chuckled briefly, making Arthur wonder if it might not be a better idea to kick Gilbert’s chair out from under him and leave. “So what can I do you for, Artie boy?” Arthur looked at him a long moment and then turned around.

“Forget it.” It was a hundred and ten percent not worth it and how could he ever word it so Gilbert didn’t know right away that Arthur was trying to get at Francis?

“Hey, hey, hey!” Gilbert jumped to his feet and grabbed Arthur’s upper arm. “Hang on now, I’m always glad to do a bro a solid. You’ll just owe me, huh?” He grinned again. “So go on and tell me what it is you want.”

“And you’ll do it?” Arthur asked cautiously.

“If it is within my power, I cross my heart and hope to die,” Gilbert swore, crossing an X over his chest. “And then you’ll owe me one.” Arthur took a deep breath.

“You know that arse who set off the alarm last time?”

“Who, Raivis?” Gilbert asked.

“No, the other one!” Gilbert’s pale brow furrowed and he thought for a moment, confused. Then he remember Arthur’s fixated with the idea that Francis had started the fire.

“You mean Francis?” he asked.

“Was he the blond?” Arthur asked, feigning casualness as much as he possibly could, like he hadn’t memorized the back of Francis’ head and could probably tell Gilbert how many fine golden hairs were on it.

“Yeah, the one in the towel,” Gilbert snorted, shaking his head. Francis’ behavior would forever be a source of entertainment and exasperation for him.

“That one then,” Arthur said, his heart pounding far more than it should’ve been, just talking to Gilbert (about Francis). “Do you know what his field of study is?”

“Yeah, he’s a double major in French linguistics and art,” Gilbert said easily.

“Why d’you wanna know?”

“I was…looking for translation services,” he lied, quite well if he did say so himself. “For a project. Thank you for the information, I’ll be in touch.” With that, he quickly made his exit before he could to something to flub up the whole thing. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t done that already.

So he had some information.

What exactly he was going to do with it, he wasn’t sure. He mulled it over until soccer club that Friday. It wasn’t the competitive team, but a lot of the official team was on it, including that moron Antonio, much to Arthur’s displeasure. Arthur didn’t have enough time to be on the official team, but he did like to kick a ball around, so he’d joined the club to get out of the dorm a bit on Friday afternoons. Besides, a chance to knock Antonio into the dirt was never to be missed (not that he didn’t get it as much as he gave; Antonio was a better soccer player than he was). They were preparing to scrimmage when Francis showed up with the lovely woman on his arm and Arthur tripped over the ball, managing to hit one of his teammates before he had a chance to slide into the mud.

“Francis!” Antonio cried out cheerfully and waved enthusiastically before jogging over. “Did you come to watch our scrimmage?”

“Hello, Toni!” Francis greeted him with kisses on his cheeks and Arthur’s feet felt cold. They weren’t…? Antonio wasn’t his…? Or was it the girl? Or both of them? All three of them? Either way, they were all way out of his league. He didn’t even hear the conversation; he was too busy listening to the sound of Francis’ voice. His only fault was that stupid accent. Pity. More pity it wasn’t enough to snap Arthur out of this dreamy haze. Only, he wasn’t sure he could realistically use either of those words, because they implied that it was somewhat pleasant, rather than a roiling pot of anxiety and panic attacks whenever he noticed Francis might accidentally catch a glimpse of him or hear a note of his voice.

“Arthur, ball!” He snapped to, fortunately in time to duck the ball flying at his head. Francis was going to kill him one of these days. And he’d be glad about it too, sadly. There were worse ways to go.

When he was changing after the game, he got a text from one of his old friends from high school, who went to a college a few towns away, talking about a concert they were going to next month. It was for a punk rock band Arthur absolutely loved, so what could he say? He accepted, feeling giddy with delight. Until he remembered this trip was way outside his allowance and Mummy was not going to be financing a trip for him to see a trash band. Goodbye, joy. Hello, unfinished Analysis of British Literature homework.

“What’s up with you?” Fabio, his roommate, asked when he got back to the dorm. Arthur and Fabio had known each other in middle school, but hadn’t spoken since, until getting roomed together. After a bit of prodding, Arthur came out about the concert that he couldn’t afford.

“Why don’t you look for a job on campus?” Fabio suggested, avoiding his math homework.

“Who would hire me for just a month?” Arthur asked, already knowing the answer was no one. He tossed his backpack down by the end of the bed and shook his head, flinging a few last water droplets out of his showered-dampened hair. Fabio shrugged.

“See if you can get into one of the Psyche student’s projects, they’re always paying to hook you up to some wires,” he snickered. Arthur gave him an unamused look. “I’m sure you’d be great fodder for them!”

“Haha,” he said dryly, taking a seat at his desk to get some work done. The issue with the concert was almost enough to take his mind of Francis for a while. He continued to think it over for several days, although he’d already regretfully texted the group back and said he couldn’t go. He considered asking his mum anyway, but he knew she’d say no and then he’d have lost credit for trying to get the money out of her. She barely had enough extra as it was; his previous three siblings had been more or less on their own to pay for school.  
Fabio shattered his carefully constructed card castle of misery a week before the concert, bursting through the door and waving a bit of paper about.

“I found you a job, Arthur!” he exclaimed excitedly while Arthur was in the middle of an online test. “It’s just three days, but look at the pay!” Arthur cast his annoyed glance up long enough to take in the figure and his eyes widened.

“All you have to do is help out with a couple of Mrs. Rosen’s classes! They’ll even pay you ahead of time!”

“Really? That’s bloody perfect,” he said.

“Yeah! But they go fast, so just sign the paper and I’ll turn it in for you; I have to be back up there for a lab anyway,” he said. Arthur grabbed a pen and signed off on it.

“Fabio, I really owe you a favor for this,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing, you need all the help you can get!” Fabio flashed him a smile on his way out the door. He collected the pay online and bought his ticket for five times what it would have been if he’d been able to get it before, but he had it, plus the money to contribute to the gas pool for the drive over. It was a dream and the whole thing was a blast. Definitely worth the splitting hangover he had when he got home and having slept two nights in the backseat of a van.

The job began the next week and Arthur didn’t mind doing a bit of work at all in exchange for the fun he’d had at the concert. On his way up to campus, he took a look at the address Fabio had given him and realized it was guiding him to the art building. He nearly stopped in his tracks; what if Francis was in there? Telling himself he was being ridiculous, he carried on. He had to do the job, hot Frenchmen present or not.

When he arrived, the class was about half full and he must’ve looked out of place, because the teacher, a thin woman with her auburn hair done up in a bun, pulled him aside.

“Are you the model?” she asked.

“Pardon? I signed a waver to do some work here a couple weeks ago,” he said, realizing he’d never asked Fabio what the job actually entailed. Just like that, he was on edge, even though he couldn’t really think of anything awful he could have to do helping out with an _art class_.

“Excellent!” She beamed and clapped her hands together. “This is a high level class, so they’ll be producing some good things! If you want to undress in private, you can use the paint closet there,” she said, pointing.

Wait…what?

Killing Fabio only barely crossed Arthur’s mind shut up in the closet; like an animal with his foot caught in a trap, he was far more concerned with gnawing himself free. But what could he do? Go and tell her he refused; that he wouldn’t do it? But he’d _signed a wavier_ and he’d already spent the money they paid him!

“Fuck,” he whispered, leaning back against the door, his nails scratching at the wood. He was well and truly fucked. Up the arse. With a cactus. _Shit._

“Dear, are you ready?” Mrs. Rosen’s muffled voice reached him through the wood.

“Ah…just a second,” he replied weakly.

Well once he was naked there was no fleeing the scene. He was stuck. Maybe he could breathe in paint fumes in here and end it before he had to walk out into the classroom.

“Good, good, come here.” Mrs. Rosen guided him to the center of the room while Arthur considered whether or not this was a cause worthy of seppuku and clenched his fists so tightly at his sides it was a marvel he didn’t break his skin with his own nails. He’d ask Kiku after. God. After. This class was two sodding hours long. Two hours of standing _naked_ in front of _strangers_ while they _drew him_. He was going to fling himself off the dorm roof. It was the only solution.  
The sound of whispering caught his ear and he didn’t even want to turn his head, because he had a horrible feeling he already knew what he’d see, but like a character creeping closer to the killer in a horror movie, he couldn’t stop his eyes from looking. Francis was sitting there, long legs stretched out with careless elegance, a sketchbook balanced on one knee, his head pressed together with that black-haired girl from the soccer field. They were whispering to each other in French and tittering quietly. Arthur was completely sure they were talking him, even though Francis hadn’t looked up since he’d come in. What else would they be giggling about?

He froze like a deer.

Luckily for the class, Mrs. Rosen had already moved him into the proper pose, so his utter mortification worked to her advantage, in that he could no longer flee and was trapped in the correct pose.

It was unequivocally the worst two hours of his entire life.

He could feel every eye on him, violating his person; the sound of the pencils scratching was deafening; every time they called the teacher over, he knew they were talking about him and his face flushed with color despite his best efforts. He didn’t think it had been anything less than cherry red the whole time he was there. He wanted to die. And the worst part, of course, was knowing he’d never be able to speak to Francis ever again. Ever. Since there hadn’t been a first time. Snuffed out in its infancy.

The first thing he did when he’d slunk out of the room like a cowed dog (after hiding in the closet to make sure every one of those miserable prats was out of the classroom) was to call Fabio and warn him of his impending death.

“They are never going to find your bones,” he hissed into the phone. “There will be a moon colony and flying cars before anyone ever thinks your name again. I will so utterly remove you from this Earth that—”

“Excusez-moi?”

“But Arthur—” Fabio made an attempt to save his pathetic soul, but it could never be enough. Arthur would smite him so completely from existence that he would be blasted into the nether regions of some mythical hell.

“You are taking my place, do you hear me? I am NOT going back there,” he snarled, hunched over, clutching the phone to his ear like if he gripped it tight enough, it might become Fabio’s throat beneath his fingers.

“But if you kill me, then how—?”

“Shut up! Just wait until I find you, I’m going to—” He was practically incoherent; all he could do was keep flinging vicious threats at his roommate in a fumbling attempt to make up for today’s base humiliation.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur!” Arthur turned to the sound of the voice with the most annoyed expression that might have ever existed on the planet.

Until he saw who it was.

Then his phone nearly had the same unfortunate accident that had almost befallen his face several weeks earlier.

_Francis._

“Ah…” Arthur was as full of charming wit as ever, not slightly hampered by the presence of his crush. “Uh…” His eyes, his eyes, his eyes, his eyes, he couldn’t breathe, Arthur couldn’t breathe and was the Earth still underneath his feet, because he couldn’t feel it anymore; his body tensed and he would’ve grabbed onto something to stop himself from floating away from this weightless mass if there had been anything to grasp.

“You were the model for our class, no?” Somehow the accent sounded softer when he was just talking to Arthur. He was pretty sure he’d spontaneously developed some severe deformity in his knees because they no longer felt up to supporting the rest of him when gravity came crashing back down on him.

“Hello?” Fabio called into the abyss. Arthur must’ve made some sort of motion that looked like a nod, because Francis went on.

“I wanted to thank you,” Francis said. “You were…very interesting to sketch. I wondered if you would be doing it again for our class?”

“I hadn’t…planned on it…” Arthur got out, forcing his throat to function the way it was supposed to and form words. He thought of how Francis had stared at his naked body for two hours a few minutes ago and it was all he could do not to sprint away in the opposite direction.

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. Even disappointment looked beautiful on Francis’ face, though Arthur would’ve said almost anything to make him look happy again. Except say yes to modeling. “Ah, well, perhaps if you ever changed your mind, you would be willing to model for me? You see, I’m working on my master’s project and it would be very helpful to have a regular model. My last transferred schools, sadly.”

Arthur summoned all his powers of conversation and his vast comprehension of the English language. “I…”

“Could I give you my number?” he offered, dragging the R the way the French did and making a shiver go from Arthur’s feet to the top of his head. “In case you change your mind? I’d love to sketch you again.”

He could’ve taken the red from Arthur’s cheeks for his favored rose paintings.

“S-sure. But I really don’t…modeling isn’t something I do, it was just a job I needed…” Oh great, that sounded lovely. I just stand naked in front of strangers when I need money, no big deal. Why didn’t he just tell Francis he was a prostitute?

A scrap of paper was thrust in his face.

“If you’re ever interested,” Francis said with an earnest expression. “I could pay you.” Paid to spend time with Francis? Arthur almost forgot to take the paper.

“Y-yes, right. Er, thanks. I’ll, uh…call. If. I change my mind. Thank you.”

“Arthur, are you going to kill me or what?” Arthur shut off his phone without looking away from Francis, who gave him a cheery smile, lighting up his whole face and making fireworks go off in Arthur’s brain.

“D’accord. Thank you again. And do call me if you ever want to model again! Have a nice day.” Francis went on his way and Arthur’s phone clung to his fingers, the rubber case hanging on only by the sweat on his hand.

“You too…” The words were so quiet Arthur couldn’t even tell if he’d actually spoken them aloud.

Maybe killing Fabio would be put on hold, for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fabio is supposed to be Portugal but it really has no relevance to the story
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/109949342680/so-i-wrote-a-little-thing-as-sort-of-a-follow-up)


	3. Fan/Celebrity AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrUK request from tumblr

Arthur wouldn’t have even started watching the dumb show if it hadn’t been for Matthew. Matthew, who spoke French and had been born in Quebec but studied in Paris for a year and was in love with all things French history and culture.

Honestly, rooming with his cousin had seemed like a good idea until he was reminded of how much Matthew loved France.

Normally Arthur watched proper historical shows, like Downton Abbey or Call the Midwife or The Tudors. Certainly nothing about French royalty or history!

But Matthew watched it all the time and he’d finally managed to wear Arthur down with his quiet, neatly dispersed begging. So they sat down on a three-day weekend to watch some, though Arthur was adamant that he was quitting if he didn’t like it after the third episode. Halfway through the first season he didn’t even notice Matthew sitting on the couch anymore, or the fact that it had gotten dark out and someone really needed to make dinner.

Arthur was in love.

Of this he was sure. Madly in love with the French dauphin—the prince. The man was drop-dead gorgeous, with smooth, creamy white skin, lush blond curls and the bluest eyes Arthur had ever caught sight of. And his voice. His voice was like melted chocolate—sweet, but with an edge, because everything he said seemed to have a double meaning.

He portrayed the youthful idealism of the future king perfectly and his hurt and distress as he learned the cut-throat nature of court. Even better, he was happily married (and previously a bit of a womanizer) and so his fans were graced with more than a handful of scenes of him not only doting on his wife, but taking her passionately to bed as well.

They caught up to the current season by the end of the weekend.

Even so, Arthur wouldn’t have called things “bad” until he found himself watching interviews on YouTube to hear more of the actor’s voice. His name—Francis Bonnefoy—was abominably French, but Arthur would be lying if he said the accent did anything but make his voice sound even sexier.

Things went from bad to worse though when he was guiltily browsing pictures and fanworks online. It wasn’t the same as doing it for other shows or books, because in this case, his interest was half in the show at best—the real motivator was Francis.

"Arthur, are you listening to anything I’ve been saying?"

"Huh?" Arthur looked up from his phone to see Matthew across the table, looking such a mild shade of annoyed it was almost annoying how little fire there was behind it. When Arthur was annoyed it was all or nothing. "Sorry, I was distracted," he said.

"Are you texting someone? Are you finally texting?" Matthew leaned back to try to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s phone screen, which he hastily turned away.

"No! I mean—yes, er—that is, I was doing a few things," he lied, not quite as smoothly he might’ve hoped.

"Well here, let me show you that app I mentioned the other day, for reading," Matthew said, suddenly recalling that conversation. He got up and came over while Arthur frantically stabbed at the screen and then held it away.

"No wait! I’m—it’s personal business!"

"Who are you texting?" Matthew asked, unable to deny that he was curious. What ‘personal business’ did Arthur have? He’d been single the whole three years Matthew had been living in England with him. Not only single, but aggressively single—it was like there was some part of his mind that couldn’t conceive of having a healthy, happy relationship with someone and so saw fit to make sure he sabotaged every chance he had. Matthew could count Arthur’s friends on one hand—and he was one of them.

"None of your business, Matthew!" Arthur’s voice took on that righteous tone he used when he felt he was being unjustly treated—or he was feeling defensive and wanted to behave as if he were being unjustly treated. Matthew put up his hands in a surrender gesture and moved past the table, deeper into the kitchen.

"Fine, fine. But are you alright with macaroni for dinner?" Arthur relaxed when the imminent threat was gone.

"Yes, yes, whatever you want," he said, not listening again. Somewhat irked, Matthew cast a glance over Arthur’s shoulder to see what he was doing that was so much more interesting than Matthew’s conversation.

"Is that Louis on your phone background?" he asked, catching sight of the dauphin’s golden curls. Arthur yelped and killed the screen.

"It most certainly is not and you shouldn’t be spying on people’s previously mentioned _personal business_ , Matthew!” he snapped, turning in his chair to direct a glare at Matthew, fairly weak for his usual standards. Matthew just tried to hide his snickers and got to work on their dinner—Kraft macaroni with hot dogs chunks in it. Fine dining at it’s best.

It wasn’t hard, Matthew realized, to notice Arthur’s fixation with Francis Bonnefoy once he had the hint. It explained why all his protests about watching something French suddenly died. Matthew loved the show for the show’s sake, but he figured he’d still be interested when Matthew discovered the cast would be doing a fan panel at an upcoming convention in Manchester.

He was completely right. Arthur attempted to be as nonchalant about it as ever, but Matthew was getting better at reading the surly Englishman and he could tell he found the idea exciting.

The long drive over was mostly spent flipping between Arthur’s classic rock stations and Matthew’s alternative music, save for the few times they managed to find a classical station they both liked.

"They’re going to be in room 4C," Matthew said, peering at the schedule as they maneuvered their way off to the side, where they wouldn’t be in the way of the crowds passing through.

"That’ll be upstairs I think," Arthur said, looking around with an edgy expression in his eyes. He’d been on the defensive since they got here, which Matthew attributed to his dislike of crowds, though possibly also because he found it somewhat embarrassing that he was here at all. "I can’t believe we’re actually doing this," he muttered to himself as they trooped up the stairs.

"Relax, it’s not like it’s one of Alfred’s anime cons," Matthew pointed out in response to the rhetorical statement. Arthur needed to learn that just because he imagined himself not being heard by anyone didn’t mean he really wasn’t.

"Yes, at least it’s not that," he said dryly. As if Matthew would ever get him within ten miles of one of those!

They arrived in the room, already half-full, and found some seats near the middle. In no time it seemed the room was packed and then fell dead silent, only to erupt in furious applause and cheers when the cast emerged to take their seats at the table on the stage. And there he was—Francis. He smiled out at the crowd like he was sharing a saucy secret with all of them and he was every bit as beautiful as he looked on TV (or a phone screen), even without the Valois regalia.

And Arthur didn’t hear a word he said.

The only thing he took notice of was the sound of his voice and the expressions on his face, or the way he slouched back in his chair sometimes, stretching his legs out under the table, or the way he teased the actress who played his wife on the show. He did take note of their firm denial that they were in a personal relationship outside what went on during the show.

It seemed like no time at all passed before it was over.

"Is that all?" he asked Matthew when the panel closed.

"Yeah, they’re only doing this one showing," Matthew confirmed, checking the schedule again.

"And no…autographs or anything like that?" Matthew looked up at Arthur, slightly amused.

"I don’t think so, they’d have said so if they were," he said. "Have you seen my pokeball keychain? I think it came loose when I sat down…" While the room slowly emptied, they looked around for the missing keychain, which was just a few rows down.

"Here it is Matthew!" Arthur held it up in triumph.

"Mattieu?" They both turned and Francis was still sitting at the table, having been looking at something on his coworker Antonio’s phone. But now he was looking at Matthew and then his face broke into a hesitant smile. "Mattieu, is that you?"

"Hey, Francis." Matthew’s cheeks went pink and he ducked his head while Arthur just stared, debating between cheering inwardly and wringing Matthew’s neck because he sensed some sort of betrayal via secrecy here.

Francis got up and jumped down off the stage to greet Matthew with kisses on both cheeks.

"I can’t believe it! It’s been so long since I last saw you? How are you, dear? What are you doing in England?" He smiled brightly and Arthur’s heart was hollow, made of glass.

"I live here now," Matthew said, still looking sheepish about having been caught. "With my cousin, Arthur." He gestured and Francis gave him a polite nod. "I mean he’s mostly the reason we came," Matthew went on, absolving himself of responsibility for this situation. "He’s crazy about your show."

"I am not crazy about it!" Arthur snapped, his face heating up. "It’s passable. It’s _French_.” Francis arched his finely-shaped brows and shared and amused look with Matthew.

"Les Anglais," he said, entertained. "And yet here you are," he said to Arthur. "I can’t imagine Mattieu making anyone go somewhere they didn’t want to, which means you wanted to come. Perhaps to see my lovely Isabella?" Arthur’s flush only darkened and he glanced away.

"Not in the slightest," he said. "I merely enjoy a reasonably accurate retelling of historical events…"

"Then it must be for me," Francis laughed. "If you’re not here for her!"

"Francis," Matthew chided. "You can’t flirt with Arthur!" The man in question looked positively aghast, though whether it was at Matthew’s suggestion or his restriction no one could say. Maybe both.

"And why not?" Francis asked, giving him a slight pout.

"He’s my cousin!"

"Matthew! I am not in need of your _protections_ against—who is he to you anyway?” Arthur broke in indignantly.

"Mattieu stayed with my family when he studied abroad in Paris," Francis offered up for him, pronouncing it the proper French way. “Weren’t you going to come say something to me?” he added, giving Matthew an injured look.

“Well I didn’t want to bug you or anything, I know how busy it must be…Francis is a terrible flirt,” Matthew informed Arthur, looking back.

"Oh Mattieu, how you wound! You make me sound like some sort of heartbreaker or Casanova," he sighed dramatically, turning his face away. Suddenly, Matthew’s phone sounded.

"Oh!" He glanced down. "It’s my boss. Sorry—I have to take this!" He hurried off, leaving Arthur staring warily at the TV star.

"You look like you’re afraid I’m going to bite," Francis said, looking entertained by the thought.

"Even if you did, I wouldn’t be afraid of it," Arthur said, sniffing. Francis thought he could perfectly play a snobby English royal as the counterpart to Francis’ character.

"Good then," Francis said coyly, turning to face him fully. "I like the ones who enjoy a little biting." Arthur’s face was rendered florid once again.

"Do you speak like this with all your fans?" he sputtered. Francis shrugged casually.

"Not all of them. I don’t often get conversations with them individually though," he said. "Ah!" He brought his hands together. "Perhaps Matthieu and Mattieu’s cousin would like to go get something for lunch?"

"I can’t, sorry," Matthew apologized as he entered the room again, running a hand through his hair. "I have to go to the hotel room Arthur, I’ve got to check in with work; something came up with the website and I have to take care of it. But you two should go!"

Okay so the website wasn’t exactly the most urgent thing in the world. But Matthew wasn’t stupid—he’d seen the way Arthur looked at Francis, both on the TV screen and now off it. So what sort of cousin/wingman would he be if he didn’t get Arthur at least an hour or two alone with his old “French brother”?

"But Mattieu, I wanted to see you," Francis said, looking disappointed.

"Arthur can give your our number and address!" Matthew supplied. "You can come visit us sometime if you want!" Arthur was desperately trying to catch Matthew’s eye because nothing in the entire world sounded more terrifying than spending a few hours alone with Francis Bonnefoy, but Matthew was determinedly avoiding his gaze. He knew how well Arthur avoided social situations—well he wasn’t getting out of this one. He was going to take this chance to talk to a man he had a massive crush on and Matthew wasn’t getting him out of it.

"Alors, c’est la vie. Come along then, Mattieu’s cousin," Francis said, waving Arthur after as he strode for the door.

"It’s Arthur!" the Englishman corrected him in irritation.

"Oui, oui, Arsur."

"Ar _th_ ur!”

This was either the best or the very worst idea Matthew had ever had, but either way, he booked it out of there. He was sure he’d hear all about it from Arthur when he got back.

He did.

The hotel door opened with a slightly muffled bang.

“How could you not tell me you knew Francis bloody Bonnefoy?” Arthur nearly shouted before his foot was across the threshold.

“I did, Arthur, you weren’t listening,” Matthew protested.

“You absolutely did not you sod, I would have remembered that!” 

“I did, when we were at the kitchen table,” Matthew recalled. “You were too busy looking at your phone. Is that lipstick on your cheek?”

Arthur turned an interesting shade of puce before shutting himself in the bathroom with incoherent mumbling, from where Matthew could only pick out “The damn _French_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/113915553475/fruk-33)


	4. Meeting Again at a High School Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrUK request from tumblr

Francis really didn’t want to be going to this thing. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d accomplished—oh yeah, _zip_ in the ten years since high school. He wasn’t even married; that had fallen through two years ago and even though in retrospect he knew it was better to be out of a relationship that wouldn’t work, at least if he had been married he could talk about that. Instead, his hand was quite bare of a ring and he had nothing of great interest to report, except the brief and very interesting trip he’d taken around Europe with a friend after getting his first degree.

Still, he couldn’t just skip out and there were a few people he wanted to see, so he straightened his tie with a sigh and got out of the car, having been seated in the parking lot for the last five minutes.

"Hello, Francis!" Ivan greeted him enthusiastically almost as soon as he was through the door and he cast a faint smile at the towering man.

"Hello Ivan, long time no see," he said. He wasn’t surprised to see Ivan here; the man was drawn like a magnet to social engagements even though people typically avoided his presence.

"How has everything been?" Ivan asked, following him into the dining hall where the event was set up. "Good, I hope? Nothing awful happened?"

"No, Ivan, nothing too terribly crippling," Francis said, shaking his head slightly at Ivan’s choice of phrase. He always meant well but he tended to speak like a man who might secretly be a serial killer.

He’d also held a raging crush on Francis for four years that made it exceedingly hard to escape him, even when one was ah— _engaged_ — with other things in the upstairs room of a rather loud Friday night party. Francis hoped he was past that. He also hoped Ivan might’ve forgotten the drunken Christmas party pity-kiss.

"And how have you been?" he asked politely as he scanned the room to see who was here. It looked like most of the usual crowd, minus people like Gilbert, who though high school reunions were stupid and Antonio, who was too busy to come.

"Oh, you know," Ivan replied mysteriously, smiling and looking up at the ceiling. "Alright. I had a long flight from Moscow to get here!"

"Have you had a drink yet?" Francis asked, glancing at the table of refreshments stretched out by the windows.

"Just one," Ivan replied.

"Let’s have another," Francis invited, waving him along as he headed over to help himself to some champagne. It wasn’t the best, but it was passable. They made it through a glass before Emma arrived and came over to greet Francis and flash the golden band on her finger with a grin.

As more people arrived, someone cranked up the music, playing songs that had been popular when they were in school. Several people had brought their spouses and someone had laid out an old yearbook which people were flipping through; Francis joined them for a little while, sharing the memories and laughing at the stupid things they’d worn and done. Eventually though, he went outside to have a smoke. Someone was already out there, but he didn’t pay them any mind until they spoke.

"Hey, share a light?"

"Smoking’s bad for you, you know," Francis said as he held the lighter out.

"And wearing that much cologne makes you a fire hazard, but I don’t see anyone bothering to point that out to you," the man replied and Francis’ lips twisted up in a smirk as he turned to see perhaps the one person he had not looked forward to seeing: Arthur Kirkland.

"My, my, Sourcils! I didn’t recognize you without the ripped up skinny jeans killing your future children and the anarchy t-shirts," he said. "And it seems you may have even showered sometime within the last week!"

"I would’ve seen you sooner but I was expecting the glint of the moonlight off your braces," Arthur returned nastily, handing the lighter back and taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Oh come now, that was only freshman year," Francis chided.

"Freshman and half of sophomore," Arthur corrected.

"You have a good memory for the state of my face," Francis remarked, crossing one ankle over his thigh, making far too good a target of his crotch, in Arthur’s opinion. 

"It was hard to forget you looking like a junkyard had set up shop on your front teeth," Arthur said. "Especially when you had so many colorful remarks for the way I dressed."

"They were hardly that bad." Francis brushed off the insult. "And you, dear English, looked like someone had fished you right out of a 1980s London dive bar."

"At least I never tried to bring back disco shirts," Arthur snorted, taking a seat on the low concrete wall, a safe distance from the touchy-feely Frenchman.

"No, only overused concepts of rebelling against some unnamed authoritarian entity," Francis quipped, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the warm evening air. Arthur made a nasty face at him.

"Fuck off, we can’t all be as prissy perfect as you," he sneered. _Out of insults I see_ , Francis thought.

"Sadly, you’re right," Francis sighed dramatically. "But I can hold out hope for you all nonetheless." Arthur rolled his eyes so hard Francis worried he might disconnect a muscle, but he survived and they lapsed into silence.

"So, uh…" Arthur coughed awkwardly. "What ARE you doing these days, besides being an annoying prick? I’m assuming of course that you haven’t actually managed to become a master chef in the last ten years."

"I work at a strip club as a pole dancer," Francis said casually and Arthur choked on a breath.

"You WHAT?" Francis just gave him a dead serious look for a long moment before bursting into laughter. Arthur scowled and Francis doubled over, cracking up at the sight of Arthur’s face.

"Fucking arse." Arthur whacked Francis on the back while he was busy laughing. Eventually he straightened up and got a grip. "Are you quite finished?" Arthur sounded so annoyed Francis almost started laughing all over again.

"Yes, I think so," he said, a few loose snickers escaping. "No. I work at a bank," he said, shaking his head. "It’s much less interesting."

"You? A bank?" Arthur arched his eyebrows. "Good God, did they hold you at gunpoint and make you take it or what?"

"What’s so strange about me working at a bank?" Francis asked with a slight pout. Bloody hell, _that_ look hadn’t changed at all, Arthur realized.

"You. Sitting at a desk all day? Being professional and business-like and filing paperwork?" Arthur thought it was obvious why it was completely bass-ackwards for Francis to be working at a _bank_. One might as well have said Matthias had decided to be a lawyer.

"It’s not that hard," Francis said with a shrug.

"But it sounds like something you’d _hate_ ,” Arthur said. There was a pause and then:

"Mon Dieu, I do hate it," Francis said, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "It’s so _boring_!”

"Then why are you doing it?" Arthur asked. Francis shrugged again.

"I need something to do," he said. "And I’m looking for something else."

"Like what?" In his attempt to be a polite gentleman, Arthur was afraid he might’ve accidentally come off as sounding like he actually cared. For a moment, Francis debated whether or not to actually answer that.

"Illustration," he said at last, tapping the end of his cigarette against the edge of the wall. "For books."

"Like children’s books or something?" Arthur asked.

"Perhaps," Francis replied. "Maybe other types of books…I’m open to what might come. I sent a portfolio into an office a few weeks ago, but I haven’t heard back yet." Briefly, he wondered why he’d bothered offering that up. In strictly polite conversation, one never offered more information than asked for. "What about you? Have you managed to become a famous rockstar yet?" he asked, looking at Arthur with arched eyebrows. "Judging by your ‘aged grandpa’ aesthetic, I would say not."

"Sod off, you nasty shit," Arthur snapped, slugging Francis in the arm.  
"I’m trying to decide if this is better than ‘gutter-dwelling punk who probably still lives with his mum’," Francis said, stifling a snort.

"Oh shut the fuck up." Arthur had limited replies, since Francis had come back looking like he’d taken up charioting the sun across the sky since high school. At least once Arthur could’ve mocked him for having such long, lanky legs, but now they fit him perfectly and he’d started sporting a beard which was also hatefully appropriate.

Francis did him the courtesy of shutting his froggy face and when Arthur felt no more mocking was imminent, he offered up an answer.

"I work at a bookstore," he grumbled.

"You sound so irritated about it; I would think that’d be something you would enjoy," Francis said. "Seeing as how you used to be capable of falling down stairs with your nose in a book."

"That was one time and I—" Arthur started to shout before taking a breath to regain his composure. "That’s rich coming from the man who got caught shagging the principle’s daughter in his office."

"To be fair, there was nothing in the school rules about not doing it," Francis pointed out. "And she said he was out to lunch."

"On his _desk_ , Bonnefoy. You have no shame!”

"Why should I?" Francis asked breezily. "She wanted to, I wanted to and we would’ve straightened everything up afterwards. Besides, he should be proud—we remembered to use protection." He let out a huff of laughter and stubbed out the last of his cigarette. 

“Oh yes, I’m sure that makes up for it,” Arthur said dryly.

"You know, I think you remember as much about my time in high school as I do," he remarked.

"Well I—you were always in my face!" Arthur blustered. "And I had to have blackmail material! Now it’s just stuck in my head!"

"It’s touching all the same," Francis said, putting a hand over his heart. "You know, I didn’t see you inside," he suddenly realized. "Have you been out here the whole time?"

"No," Arthur muttered, scraping his cigarette butt against the wall to put it out. "I came late. And it’s too crowded. And I don’t want to talk to those gits anyway. I never liked them."

"Then why did you come?" Francis asked frankly.

"I don’t know, it’s the thing you do," Arthur said, hunching his shoulders like he always had when he was uncomfortable. "I just _did_.”

"You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to be here," Francis pointed out, rather than trying to convince Arthur to go back inside and chat up with people who he’d never been friends with anyway. He’d always been a loner; the couple friends he had made weren’t here anyway and they hadn’t spoken since graduation.

"Well I was going to leave but then you showed up to foil my happiness as always," he griped. Francis smiled in amusement.

"I’ve had my fill of talking to everyone in there," he began slowly. "Perhaps we could find a bar instead? Those seem to be more your speed."

"Are you calling me a drunk?" he demanded.

"Just a plebian," Francis assured him.

"Fucking arse."

"Come on," Francis laughed, getting up. "Let’s go, it’ll be more fun than sitting out here in the dark!" He started heading for the parking lot. "Did you drive?" he called, not bothering to turn around. He just assumed Arthur was following him, which annoyed Arthur even though he was.

"Yeah." Francis unlocked his car, a silver rental.

"Then follow me, I saw a couple places on the way in," he said, pausing after opening the door to grin at Arthur. "And maybe we can rehash the events of Karen’s party from senior year."

Arthur went red all the way up to the tips of his ears.

"If you think you’re going to get to make out with me after I’ve had a few you’re wrong!" he declared furiously. "I can hold my alcohol much better now!"

He was lying on both accounts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/114003371960/fruk-48-please-and-thank-you-3)


	5. Met Online

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrUK + Met Online AU

They had a trade-off: Kiku dragged Arthur to anime conventions and Arthur towed Kiku along to things like Comicon. Not that Arthur was a big comic book reader, he came for other things. The past two years it had namely been a popular TV show: Fate.

He’d been waiting months for this con; it didn’t even bother him when Kiku zipped off as soon as they were inside, distracted by a cluster of Bleach cosplayers off to one side. He was too occupied looking around and picking out the Fate cosplayers and fans from the crowd.

Arthur himself wasn’t much of a cosplayer—it took too much work and he was far from fashion-conscious. He just wore some ratty old jeans and a graphic t-shirt from the show, feeling that it was a safe occasion to be casual.

"I’m going to the vendor’s hall!" He threw the words over his shoulder to Kiku, who wasn’t paying attention anyway, and hurried off. He had some money to spend and he was eager to see what merchandise he could collect this time.

Browsing the vendor’s hall and artist’s alley one stand at a time, Arthur was much like a gold digger painstaking panning out each plate full of dirt in search of a shimmering jewel. He found several, judging by how his wallet was thinning out. He was finishing up his first run-through of the artist’s alley when a blockage halted him from going any further. Annoyed, he took a closer look so he might scowl most fearsomely at those preventing his progress.

There was a small crowd of people around a cosplayer, taking pictures. Didn’t they know to move _out of the way_ and—good Lord, that was a beautiful cosplay. Arthur paused as well to look the man over. He was stunning and his cosplay perhaps even more so. He was a Fate cosplayer and the detail that had gone into this showy cosplay was fantastic; full of dark blues and purples, with a cape that swirled out behind him and a black tricorn with a luscious white feather plume. He wasn’t even wearing a wig, but had long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail matching the character’s style.

Arthur edged closer, trying to get a better look as he edged around the jam. The cosplayer caught his eye and flashed a wolfish grin. Arthur’s scandalized look was his reward.

"Cheshire, over here!" called one of the amateur photographers, waving to get the cosplayer’s attention.

No…there was no way. Arthur’s scandal quickly became dark fury.

"Wait a second," he said, unable to stop himself from butting in. "Who are you? Not CheshireGrin89?" The smile the cosplayer gave him in return could’ve answered the question for him.

"None other," he said, sweeping the hat off dramatically and bowing. Photographers scrambled.

"You wrote that ridiculous tripe about Joly and Marie’s powers on the fan forum!" Arthur exclaimed, aghast.

"Do I know you?" Cheshire asked, looking intrigued.

"Yes! I’m the one who corrected that bloody nonsense you were spewing!" Arthur said heatedly, feeling his ire rise at the memory. Pah! As if the nature of Marie’s powers could be attributed like that! The whole thing was folly. A smile twitched on Cheshire’s face.

"You wouldn’t be the one who wrote the four page response which included an analysis of the prophecy that was nixed from the second season and a reference to an 16th century essay on alchemy, would you?" he asked, looking more amused than offended, which only made Arthur more infuriated.

"Of course I was! Someone had to show you what bullshit that idea was!" Arthur said heatedly. Cheshire just smirked.

"Nice to finally see you in person, SwordintheStone," he said, flicking his cape out behind him. Someone drew in a sharp gasp.

So maybe Arthur and Cheshire were a bit… _known_ in the fandom. Probably because they had the most heated, virulent and frequent arguments in the whole fandom. Half of all Fate discord could be traced back to them, whether instigated by them personally or be people repeating their ideas or taking sides. No one had even seen them meet in person—because in fact, it had never happened.

Until now.

"I could’ve done without a froggy face to put to the poncy attitude," Arthur sneered, intending to move on and be done with it here. He turned to go.

"I see your cosplays are a lot like your arguments: rather threadbare," Cheshire countered. SwordintheStone’s arguments were actually brilliant and Cheshire more than enjoyed sparring with him, but he knew the man well enough by now to know how to rile him up.

"Excuse me?" Sure enough, he spun right back around. He strode back over and jabbed a finger at the cape. "Your stitching is wrong. Joly’s cape doesn’t have a cross-stitch, it looks braided. Any brainless git knows that," he snapped, thick brows knitting above a heated green gaze as he glared up at Cheshire. The crowd was growing; at least half the people still hanging around were just listening to the banter rather than taking pictures of Cheshire’s cosplay.

"Well, well," the Frenchman drawled. Of course he was _French_. It was bad enough he was a mindless twat; he just also had to be _French_. “I suppose it’s true what they say.” He glanced at the people around them, as if to draw them into the conversation. “All Englishmen really do have iron poles up their backsides. No wonder you’re so bitter and resentful over those of us who manage to enjoy ourselves! Don’t worry, I understand completely.”

The audacity—!

"And I guess it’s true what they say about the French too," Arthur snarled back. "Too lazy to even look up a picture of the character you’re cosplaying, that’s a whole new level! Not that I have any doubts you bought this off some other hard-working sod because making it yourself would require you to do something besides sit around and pretend you’re modeling for a camera!"

"Arthur!" There was a tug at his sleeve and he—with great effort—turned his attention away from trying to sear holes into Cheshire’s face with his eyes, and looked down to see Kiku’s anxious face. "Please don’t get into a fight," he begged. "We’ll get thrown out!"

For a moment, Arthur debated with himself and then cast one last curled lip at Cheshire before turning to follow Kiku.

"He’s not worth fighting with anyway. Not enough of a challenge," he scoffed.  
"I suppose that’s why you keep picking them with me!" Cheshire called after him. Arthur was about to go back over there and show that frog what for, but Kiku gave another slight tug on his arm with a pleading look. Arthur looked down at Kiku and back at Cheshire, to make it clear he was only avoiding fighting for Kiku’s sake, then followed his friend out of the artist’s alley.

But he and Cheshire were in the same fandom; it was inevitable that they’d run into each other again over the course of a three-day con. He didn’t see Cheshire again until Saturday morning, when he was discussing something with another fan, Fabio.

"…like I said in _Maurice Drowning on Land_ , most of his actions are completely internally driven,” he was saying. “He’s not lacking in feeling, he’s just exceptionally introverted.”

"That makes sense," Fabio agreed, nodding and rubbing his chin. "Especially when you look at his reaction to the king’s edict regarding public appearances; it makes that seem much less out of the blue."

"Exactly! And there I was trying to show that," Arthur said.

"Hold on, are you saying you wrote _Maurice Drowning on Land_?” asked a new voice, one rather incapable of pronouncing an H. Arthur was already annoyed.

"Yes, that is generally what people say when they talk about what they were trying to portray in a piece of writing," he said cuttingly, turning his head to see Cheshire leaning over the back of his seat. He smacked the man’s hand to get him off.

"I loved that fanfiction!" Arthur stared, taken aback by not only the fact that Cheshire had liked the piece (he’d read the whole thing?) but that he’d admit it.

"You know it?" Arthur asked.

"Half the fandom knows it," Cheshire exaggerated. "Besides, it was the one that made me stop hating Maurice’s character." Arthur couldn’t help but puff up a bit at that. "You write under another penname then? You’re also MrKirklandofPemberlyHall?"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, unreasonably embarrassed by hearing his username out loud.

"Er—yes, that’s me," he said.

"Ahh, I’ve read some of your other things too," Cheshire said. " _Maurice Drowning on Land_ was the best though. Although the pairings were atrocious; there’s no way he would end up with Marie. And Joly with Edwin? Never.”

"Well go write your own damn fanfiction then!" Arthur snapped, scowling again. “Besides, Marie and Joly could never work, I’ve told you that a thousand times on the forums!”

"I’d rather trade," Cheshire said smoothly. "You write me something and I’ll give you something in return."

"And what would that be?" Arthur scoffed, turning in his seat to fully face Cheshire. He held up a finger and dug through his back before producing a piece of paper with a flourish. It was a picture of Maurice and with a cold, sinking feeling in his gut, Arthur recognized the art style. He knew this artist. "This is you?" he asked weakly, showing Cheshire the drawing. He’d seen a stand with this art up in the AA, but it had been unoccupied at the time. All the works shown there were no higher than PG in rating, but Arthur knew from personal experience this artist had a plethora of highly erotic works in his gallery.

Judging by the look stretching across his face, Cheshire knew Arthur knew.

"Perhaps you’d prefer something else," he said, taking back the print of Maurice and producing something else—an X-rated drawing of Edwin and some unknown lover, featuring Arthur’s favorite kink: bondage. "This is more your speed, isn’t it?"

Arthur felt the tips of his ears burn.

"How could you—?"

"I read your fanfiction, cher, I know what you like," Cheshire purred and Arthur tried to hide his face with the picture, not that giving himself and up-close view of Edwin’s straining erection (complete with cock ring) helped cool his face down any. The idea of anyone reading his works and being able to draw out his own personal desires was horrifying; it wasn’t a possibility he’d ever even considered, let alone that he might meet one of those people in real life.

"Fine, fine, I’ll do it!" He hastily started rolling up the picture in case anyone might look this way.

"And you’ll keep the print?" Arthur merely nodded in reply and kept it tightly rolled up.

"Magnifique! Now I have to run, I’m needed in artist’s alley!" He flashed Fabio and Arthur a smile before striding off and no, Arthur was not staring at his legs as he walked away.

"What’s with this, anyway?" Arthur demanded, waving the rolled up drawing of Edwin in Cheshire’s face when he reached his stand in AA. "Since when do you commission me? We don’t do anything but argue!"

"Well I always thought of us as friends," Cheshire said somewhat candidly, blinking up at Arthur.

"F-friends?" the Brit sputtered. "Where in God’s name did you get that idea?"

"Oh come on, no one in the world takes online arguments that seriously," Cheshire laughed. "Besides, they’re fun, aren’t they? I always found them entertaining." Arthur’s face didn’t know whether to pale or go red, so he ended up quite white with red splotches high on his cheekbones. "Unless you did," Cheshire added, seeing this look and covering his mouth with one white-gloved hand to hide a snort.

Arthur walked away without a word. The trivialization of hours—a year and a half!—worth of online arguments was too great. What kind of airheaded git took pleasure in arguing with people anyway? What a brainless ninny; didn’t he have anything better to do?

It was only later that night, when he was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel room, that he realized the pitfalls of losing track of Kiku—he was the one with the hotel room key. So at ten at night Arthur found himself once more circling the AA, even though most artists had cleared out for the night. Cheshire hadn’t though.

"Sword, what are you still doing here?" he called. "Aren’t you tired?"

"Bloody exhausted," he replied without getting any closer. "But my roommate has our key and he isn’t answering his phone, the wanker."

"The one you were with earlier? He looked more like an anime fan," Cheshire remarked.

"He is," Arthur said. "But he comes with me to these and I go with him to the anime cons. We’re going to one in the summer. Ugh. I can’t go back to the hotel until he answers his phone though," Arthur said in marked annoyance. This was so unlike Kiku; he was usually terminally responsible.

"Come walk with me then," Cheshire replied, getting to his feet and stretching before starting to close up shop.

"Aren’t you open late?" Arthur asked rather than answering the question.

"I get more…adult customers later in the day," he said. "For the works I don’t have displayed." There were a few suggestive ones, but nothing that would be hard to explain to younger fans. The erotica goods he kept beneath the table; most people who knew his art knew to ask about those.

"Pervert," Arthur snorted.

"You know my works already though," Cheshire said with a coy smirk. He slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped into the alley. "What does that say about you?"

"All it says is that you’re bloody popular and I’ve seen your shit floating around the interwebs!" Arthur said tightly, crossing his arms.

"Oh, don’t be so unpleasant. Come on, walk with me. You might get the chance to fit in another French-themed insult." Arthur really had nothing else to do and until Kiku texted him back, he couldn’t even go to sleep, so he trudged after Cheshire, giving him a look like an angry dog.

The conversation on the way back to Cheshire’s hotel room consisted of character analysis and a good number of insults from both of them.

"You should come in and sit down," Cheshire said when they reached the Hilton where he was staying.

"No thanks," Arthur said stiffly. "I’m fine."

"Sword, you look like you’re about to collapse," Cheshire chuckled. "Come in and have a drink. Of water, if you prefer," he tacked on quickly at the look Arthur gave him. Arthur checked his phone to see if Kiku had replied and when he saw nothing, he sighed and followed Cheshire into the Hilton.

"You got a single?" he asked when Cheshire swung the door open to his room.  
"Of course! After all that craziness I need a bit of peace and quiet," he sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed to pull off his knee-high black leather boots. Various drawings and prints of his, in all range of content ratings, were scattered about. Arthur took a look on the dresser and saw, among other things, Joly pining Marie against a dungeon wall, the king slouched in his throne and Joly surrounded by a purple flash, his hand extended for the purpose of some sort of spell. "If you see something you’d like better than the one I gave you, you can trade," Cheshire remarked, waving a hand over the papers. Cautiously, Arthur picked one up—Joly in men’s lingerie— and examined it (it was even more embarrassing to look at when the man sitting on the bed looked so similar to Joly; Arthur was frantically trying to beat down the unwelcome mental image of Cheshire in that same set of lingerie).

"You are a real pervert," he said, shaking his head. "Where do you come up with all this stuff?"

"Are you saying you don’t like it?" he asked, arching an eyebrow and helping himself to a bottle of Perrier from the minifridge.

"No but—" Cheshire was smirking at him again and Arthur narrowed his eyes even as his face went red. "Stop looking at me like that! I’m not the one making these!" He dropped the print of Joly back on the dresser as if it were too hot to hold.

"No, just the one enjoying them," Cheshire said, taking a seat again and sipping his water. "Well, not the only one. I enjoy them too." Arthur wrinkled his nose and cast a look over them again.

"You really like foodplay." That came out without thinking—or, he had been thinking it would be a great rebuttal to Cheshire’s earlier evidence of Arthur liking bondage, but somehow it didn’t come out as biting or accusing as he had imagined and Cheshire, far from looking ashamed or embarrassed, looked almost proud.

"I do," he said smoothly, giving that grin so fitting of his username. "Food and sex are the two best things in the world! Why not combine them?"

"You have no shame!" Arthur exclaimed, somewhat horrified.

"And you have too much," Cheshire countered, getting up and walking over to lean against the dresser.

"I do not!" Arthur replied heatedly, crossing his arms, shuffling backwards slightly as Cheshire approached. He had to be wearing contacts, no one’s eyes were that shade of ocean-blue naturally.

"You do," Cheshire said with a chuckle. "Even when something you want is right in front of you, you won’t take it."

"Are you suggesting that I am attracted to either your Playboy drawings or you?" Arthur asked, arching one unruly eyebrow.

"I am," Cheshire said, lifting his chin, challenging SwordintheStone to deny it convincingly, or accept it. "No one argues with anyone as passionately as consistently as you have with me without some sort of…tension."

"That is the most preposterous thing I ever heard," Arthur said, right before he seized the front of Cheshire’s waistcoat and dragged him in to slam his mouth against the other man’s.

"Mm…" The Frenchman sounded quite pleased; his arms snaked around Arthur’s waist and he pulled him in closer. They stayed like that for a long while, lips working together, chests pressed flush, hips bumping, until they had to break for air.

"What’s your name anyway?" Arthur panted, loosening his grip on Cheshire’s waistcoat.

"Joly," the man replied blithely.

"Your real name, I want to know," Arthur said, shaking his head.

"Francis," Cheshire replied with a shrug. Arthur nodded very contemplatively and said nothing more before kissing Cheshire again. It was very French but it also sounded beautiful and somehow, although Arthur still thought of him completely as Cheshire, Francis wasn’t too jarringly unfitting.

Their kissing slowly grew in intensity and when Cheshire pressed for a French kiss, Arthur let him in. He could feel the Frenchman’s hands creeping lower towards his ass and he knew it was bad because he wasn’t annoyed. Rather, he was trying to think of some subtle way to suggest they go take this to the bed.

"I don’t have any ropes or whipped cream with me, sadly," Cheshire said when they had to break to catch their breath again. "But if you wanted, I could still make it interesting."  He winked and Arthur was torn between pinching him and kissing him again.

"Just get on the fucking bed," was what he said as he pried his shoes and socks off. Cheshire swept the tricorn off his head and put it aside, then reached up to undo the clasp of his cloak. Arthur was in front of him before he could and grabbed his hand. "No. Costume on," he said, wishing with all his heart it was darker so Cheshire couldn’t see the glow of pink on his cheeks. His online rival merely grinned.

” _Parfait_ «perfect»,” he breathed, dragging Arthur into a passionate kiss as he pulled him down on the bed.

In the morning, Arthur was wakened by a panicky and apologetic phone call from Kiku. He heard the familiar ring and groaned, fumbling off the side of the bed for his jeans, from which he withdrew the phone and pressed talk.

“‘ello?” he mumbled sleepily.

"Arthur! I’m so sorry, I feel awful," Kiku babbled. "I completely forgot we only had one hotel room key; please tell me where you are, I’ll come pick you up right now, breakfast is still being served at the hotel. I tried to find you last night when I went back but I couldn’t and you weren’t answering your phone…"

A lot like someone else I knew last night, Arthur thought, though his annoyance with Kiku’s behavior couldn’t really continue on given the way the evening had ended for him.

"It’s fine, Kiku, don’t worry about it," Arthur sighed, rubbing one eye. "I found a place to stay, I’m not mad. Go ahead and have breakfast; I’ll catch up with you later."

"Are you sure?" came the worried reply. An arm snaked around Arthur’s waist from the right side of the bed and he had to bite down on a cheeky smile, remembering the night before.

"Completely sure, I might sleep in a little this morning."

"If you insist…" Kiku still sounded unsure, but he didn’t press it.

"I’ll see you later Kiku," Arthur promised before hanging up and rolling over.

When they were packing up the car to go that afternoon, Kiku still hadn’t managed to weasel out where exactly Arthur had been. Neither of them would confront the subject directly, which made it difficult to approach, since Kiku was so polite about trying to nose in and Arthur was so good at avoiding the subject.

"I just stayed with a friend," was as much as he would say.

"Well…as long as you found a place to stay," Kiku sighed at last. "I apologize again, Arthur, that was incredibly irresponsible of me…" Apparently he’d gotten up in an intense Mario Smash Bros tournament in someone’s hotel room. "Next time, you should keep the hotel key," he said, something he never thought he’d hear himself say. Sure Arthur was usually responsible, but when he did lapse…it was considerable.

"It’s really fine Kiku, don’t worry about it," Arthur said, hefting the last of Kiku’s cosplay suitcases into the car. He felt something brush by him and as he turned left to catch a glimpse of it, a voice trailed by his right ear.

"I’ll see you this summer, Sword." He jerked to the right and saw Cheshire, still in cosplay, but dressed down from the full fantastic Joly costume for the drive home. He flashed a suggestive grin that made Arthur draw himself up defensively.

"Don’t think this changes anything about your shitty headcanons!" He pointed a finger at Cheshire. "I won’t let you get away with propagating that garbage!"

"I wouldn’t want it any other way, mon cher," Cheshire replied, winking and strolling off to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Fate and all associated characters are totally made up; I pulled that out of my ass because I didn’t feel like trying to think of a real fandom Francis and Arthur would share.
> 
> 2\. While the sources of Arthur’s first username should be obvious, his fanfiction name “MrKirkalndofPemberlyHall” is indeed a reference to Mr. Darcy’s residence in Pride and Prejudice
> 
> 3\. The 89 in France’s username (CheshireGrin89) is a reference to the French Revolution, which began in 1789. Whether that was a character decision or merely random is up to you.
> 
> 4\. I was tempted to include a scene of them bickering vigorously over pairings, because they each OTP the other’s NOTP, but it didn’t fit in anywhere and wasn’t really plot-relevant.
> 
> 5\. In the fandoms, Arthur is known for his fanfictions and ridiculously long and detailed metas, whereas France is known for his gorgeous (often highly erotic) art and his cosplays (he does make them himself but a lot of his followers come from the fact that he’s just naturally very attractive).
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/114079796995/for-the-send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill)


	6. Professor/Student AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr request: FrUK + teacher/student AU

“Ah—fuck—Francis—!” A high-pitched whimper came from the party below, a soft mewling as his creamy hands clawed at the sheets while the headboard repeatedly met with the wall, tapping out a firm, nearly steady rhythm.  “Hah, hah, sh—” Arthur’s eloquent praise was sharply cut off as his face contorted in a silent cry, only a few choked sounds escaping.

It was done and he groaned quietly as he rolled off, onto his back, panting. Francis’ face was flushed a beautiful pink that spread down to his chest and only exhaustion stopped Arthur from making his home between Francis’ legs for a while longer.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said, still half breathless as he raked a hand back through his hair. He flung his hand out to the side, to grab the cigarettes he’d stowed in the drawer of the bedside table even though he’d told his sister he quit. Then he remembered whom he was with and stopped; for all his preaching to Francis about what was healthy for a young man and what wasn’t, he sure served as a sorry example. The least he could do would be to not clog up Francis’ young, healthy lungs with smoke, as much as the boy—young man—claimed not to mind.

“Why not?” Francis asked, turning his head on the pillow to look over at Arthur, strands of golden hair stuck to his face with sweat. The window was open, but the only air that filtered through was warm and humid. Arthur’s chest ached and he ran a hand through his hair again to stop himself from reaching over to brush the damp locks from Francis’ cheeks.

“It’s irresponsible,” Arthur chimed like a broken record, as he had been for the last several weeks. 

When Francis said nothing, Arthur continued on, shamefully still catching his breath. Francis reminded him how out of shape he was; the kid was an athlete in bed and Arthur’s need for him drove him far beyond his typical athletic capabilities—which generally went as far as walking to his office from his car. “You can talk all you want about having made yourself available, but you’re still young—practically a child—and as someone in a position of authority I shouldn’t—”

Francis cut him off with a kiss, rolling over to press his hot lips to Arthur’s and silence him.

“You can’t keep doing that!” Francis sighed and Arthur caught sight of him rolling his eyes slightly as he drew back.

“I’m an adult, I can do what I want,” Francis boasted, sitting up and shaking his head to get his heavy curls off his neck for a moment. Arthur’s eyes traced the artful arch of his back and then moved onto his pale thighs, where his own fluid glistened, drying from their earlier activities. He tried to stifle the surge of pride and ownership that came with that sight, because he knew he shouldn’t feel it.

“You’re practically a minor,” he argued, unable to summon the energy to drag himself into a sitting position.

“I’m eighteen,” Francis said, sliding off the bed and uncurling—there was no other way to describe the graceful unfurling of limbs that was Francis getting to his feet. He swept his hair up off his neck and pinned it to the back of his head with his fingers.

“Practically a minor,” Arthur repeated. Francis wandered over to the dresser and a silent green gaze was tacked to his backside the whole way. The French boy picked up the hair tie—to Arthur’s singing guilt, not the only one—that he’d left there and tied his hair up.

“And England is practically Scotland,” Francis quipped, making Arthur scowl.

“Don’t make ridiculous comparisons,” Arthur said, annoyed. “This is serious.” Francis stretched out on the bed and strained each of his legs in turn, lifting them into the air to relax the muscles. It was quite alarming, to Arthur, how quickly Francis had been able to wrap him around his finger. He’d expertly deflected this conversation every time it came up, until Arthur was too tired or distracted to pursue it. “And stop doing that.” He smacked Francis’ hip. “It’s not going to work this time.”

“It always works,” Francis said with a grin, looking over at Arthur. He didn’t smile back, and to Francis’ consternation, didn’t reach out to touch him or pull him closer. He pouted.

“I meant it, Francis,” Arthur said seriously, holding his gaze. This time he wasn’t going to give into that puppy dog look.

“You didn’t like it,” Francis concluded, thrusting his lower lip out further and furrowing his brow. Arthur sighed.

“No, that isn’t it,” he said.

“Then you did like it,” Francis corrected, cheering up right away.

“I always—that’s not the point,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

“You always like it,” Francis said with a feline smile, reaching out to trace a finger down Arthur’s chest. “So what’s the problem?”

“It doesn’t matter if I like it!” Arthur argued, grabbing Francis’ wrist. “I shouldn’t be doing it and neither should you!” Francis huffed and flopped back on the bed.

“Why do you even have me here if all you’re going to do is complain about doing it afterwards?” Francis whined, sitting up and stretching again.

“I don’t know,” Arthur groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his face with his hands. He felt the brush of skin across the insides of his thighs and then Francis was suckling at the light bruise on his neck from earlier, knowing how much Arthur liked being kissed there.

“Then don’t worry about it,” he soothed, pressing his hips down against Arthur’s, making a quiet sound catch in the professor’s throat.

“Francis!” Francis’ hand trailed down Arthur’s abdomen and gripped him to start gently stroking him. “F-Francis I mean it!”

“Shh, don’t worry about it,” Francis went on, taking the chance to kiss Arthur when the man took his hands away from his face. “Don’t feel so guilty, this is what I want!”

“You shouldn’t—oh—you really shouldn’t do this…Francis, this is improper and—oh, _fuck_.” Francis took Arthur into his mouth all at once and yet again succeeded in putting an end to the conversation about the propriety about their relationship.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Arthur groaned to himself as he washed his hands in the bathroom much later. It was completely irresponsible and this was a total abuse of his position at the university. Francis deserved to have someone his own age, someone who could walk through the student union holding hands with him and give him a healthy relationship. Not…someone of Arthur’s age. He looked down and squeezed his stomach unhappily, noting the layer of extra scones and calorie-packed TV dinners that had settled there. Yes, Francis needed someone his own age.

He had to stop this from going further, no matter what he felt for Francis.

From then on, he did his best to cut things off. He stopped saying hello to Francis in the halls, closed up his office hours when he knew Francis had free time, and when Francis spoke in class, Arthur refused to make eye contact. As the weeks progressed, Francis became more and more aggressive trying to get Arthur to pay attention to him, even turning up at his apartment one night. To Arthur’s humiliation, he’d seen Francis standing on his front step and had kept on driving, only returning when he was sure Francis would’ve given up and gone home.

He was sitting in his office two and a half weeks later, grading some essays when the door opened. He looked up to greet whomever had arrived and nearly shrieked. Francis glared at him from over the desk, the mulish look on his face far from threatening or intimidating. Francis hated to hear it, but Arthur knew he was incapable of looking either; he had too sweet of a face for that. Arthur, on the other hand, had a way of scowling that could melt the paint of a wall.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Francis accused as Arthur was contemplating what the odds were this was a nightmare. “Why? What did I do?”

“It’s…not about you. Er, well, it is, but not like that,” Arthur said, drawing himself up. “I have to do what’s best for you, Francis.”

“You can’t make that decision for me!” Francis protested furiously.

“In this case, I can,” Arthur said with finality. “This is not healthy for you and I will not allow it to continue.”

“You can’t tell me what’s healthy for me and what’s not!” Francis cried, raising his voice. “It’s my life!”

“I CAN decide in this situation, Bonnefoy,” Arthur said firmly. Francis’ jaw dropped with outrage at the use of his surname in place of the familiar first name. “I am the older person and I will not let this continue.”

“So what, you decided to just stop talking to me?” Francis demanded. “Without telling me anything? We fuck like normal and I sleep over and then you just stop talking to me altogether?” It felt unfairly like abandonment, with no explanation. Arthur had all the emotional sensitivity of a slightly mossy boulder, and therefore did not realize it, but it was the case.

“It seemed like the best way to do things,” Arthur said stiffly.

“Because you couldn’t stand to break up with me to my face!” That came far too close to the truth, so Arthur had to shut this conversation down.

“Enough! I’ve made a choice about how this is going to end,” Arthur snapped. “You need to be with someone your own age, or at least someone who isn’t your professor.” Francis’ jaw worked and Arthur could see the righteous anger and hurt smoldering in his gaze, but he didn’t speak. Despite all his talk about being an adult, he did fear that Arthur saw him as immature for his age and the last thing he wanted was to exacerbate that by behaving like a child not getting what he wanted here.

“Fine,” he said, the muscles in his jaw still jumping in annoyance. “So it’s over.”

“Yes.” Arthur held Francis’ eyes, but his stomach felt like it was on the verge of a system rejection of his breakfast.

“Au revoir then, Monsieur Kirkland,” Francis said, making Arthur marvel at the coldness in that voice that usually held such warmth and affection, particularly when addressing him. When Arthur said nothing more (he didn’t trust his voice to speak with the way his throat felt blocked up), Francis took it to mean Arthur was completely finished with him. With one last glare, biting on his lower lip slightly, he turned sharply and exited the office, ponytail swishing behind him.  
Arthur exhaled and laid his hands on the desk. He felt exhausted, as if he’d run a mile and just sat down in his desk. After a moment, he rubbed his face with his hands and then hung his head over the desk.

 _I did the right thing_ , he told himself. _There was no happy end for this. I did the right thing_.

A little more than a week later, Francis disappeared from class.

Arthur had apparently been quite mistaken with the impression that he’d be able to cleanly cut Francis from his life like a bruise from a bit of fruit. Not that he likened Francis to a bruised apple, merely the simplicity of carving out the messy bit and carrying on with the rest.

It wasn’t like that at all.

He was wracked with guilt over Francis’ disappearance from school and several times thought of contacting him, just to know what was going on in his silly French head that made him think _leaving_ was better than staying and dealing with their break up. He was constantly reminded of Francis and often in the worst ways, like trying to grade essays and remembering Francis crouched beneath his desk, that sweet mouth of his busy below Arthur’s belt, or passing by the supply closet where they’d had their first intimate encounter. Or even just lecturing in class and letting his eyes pass over the seat by the window where Francis use to sit, remembering the way his eyes sparkled and every time he met Arthur’s eye, that half-smile quirked up his lips.

Most terrible of all, he _missed_ Francis. It was awful, because he told himself he shouldn’t—there shouldn’t have ever been anything to miss! He was twenty years Francis’ senior and everything that happened had been immoral, no matter what Francis said! But he missed the French boy all the same, missed the smell of his cologne clinging to Arthur after a session of heavy kissing, missed his soft, deft hands, rubbing Arthur’s back or worming their way into his grasp when the two were alone, because Francis craved all kinds of affection. In all ways, he was like a cat, except that one—in which he was more like a puppy dog. And he missed looking over to see Francis’ sleepy head nested into the pillow beside him, messy golden tresses splayed out like a halo around him (even though he snored which he insisted adamantly he didn’t, but he did).

It was all gone and the hole in Arthur’s chest was all the worse for the fact that he’d put it there himself.

Arthur didn’t find out until two months later, towards the end of the semester, that it wasn’t his fault.

He was in one of the staff lounges, with a couple others when someone commented on the French student’s sudden absence.

“What ever happened to that one French kid anyway?” asked one of the student aides who was with another professor. “He was going to help us out with the transfer student program reform.”

“Family tragedy, if I recall,” the professor said as Arthur suddenly lost all interest in the email he was reading and strained his ears towards their conversation. It was Francis, it had to be. Hadn’t he even said something to Arthur about helping with the transfer students? “His sister died, I believe. He went home halfway through the semester.”

“Too bad,” the aide said. “We could’ve used the help. Ah, well. We’ll figure something else out.”

Arthur stared at his screen. In some ways, he wanted to weep with relief—he had always assumed Francis left because of him, because of what he’d done or the way he’d ended their relationship or any other number of things Arthur had so badly botched with Francis. The idea that he’d driven a young man away from his university of choosing to pursue an education was devastating. To know that it wasn’t because of him—even just not entirely because of him—made him weak-kneed.

But his heart ached for Francis all the same. His hand moved unconsciously to his phone and pulled up Francis’ contact. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to delete it, though he hadn’t opened it since. He read over Francis’ name, avoiding looking at the last messages they’d sent back and forth—it was about meeting up at the café/bookstore downtown by the grocery story, he remembered.

Arthur stared at Francis’ name for nearly ten minutes before shutting the phone off and putting it back in his pocket. He checked the time, closed his laptop and headed out for class.

Francis never did re-enroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/114742542180/fruk-teacherstudent-au)


	7. Met at a Masquerade Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrUK + Met at a Masque, tumblr request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is a visiting businessman of sorts, Francis is a noble and Angelique is Seychelles. Arthur’s vocabulary is devoid of his usual British-isms because they’re speaking in French.

Francis loved attention. He had always loved attention, always loved to be the subject of discussion, always loved to be the glittering jewel in the rough. Francis was also lucky enough to be blessed with a witty tongue and a cleverness that matched his looks. One wouldn’t suspect, looking at such a pretty man, whose interest in fashion marked him quite the dandy, that he could be quite so devastating with his words, but he was all the same. As much as Francis could build people up, he could tear them down, and when it came to Versailles, both were equally useful. 

  
But tonight, despite his fantastic costume and the lovely pair of ladies sitting on either side of him, fanning themselves, he couldn’t bring himself to be enjoying this ball as much as he ought to be. It was simply too hot. No one had planned for this late summer heat wave and the whole party was lagging on account of it. Sweat moistened the exposed bosom of the blonde to his right and her wrist moved lazily, blowing a warm breeze over her face with a feathered fan. Francis himself was starting to hate the heavy blue fabric of his suit, wishing he could bare his shoulders as the Duke of Anjou’s wife was a bit further down the hall. Sitting in a chair off to the side, looking like nothing so much as a wilted flower, he contemplated abandoning his mask altogether; he could feel sweat lining the edges of it where it touched his face, dampening crescents under his eyes.

  
The windows to the Hall of Mirrors were thrown open wide, but the air in Versailles was stagnant tonight and something humid was blowing in that made it feel like they were walking through fluid rather than air. 

  
“Francis.” He raised his eyes at the sound of the whine, a motion that took far more effort than it should have, to see poor Angelique looking like she was melting, about to collapse on the floor. Her green mask hung loosely from her hand.

“My poor dear, you look positively miserable,” he said, rising to his feet and taking her hand. He dropped it at the same time she wriggled her fingers free; it was too hot for even that little skin contact. 

  
“It’s so hot and I’m so tired of dancing,” she said, giving him a look reminiscent of a child so exhausted they were about to cry. He wasn’t strictly speaking Angelique’s relation, but she was just a young teenager and here alone, so he had taken something of a big brother role to her some time ago.

  
“Would you prefer to go sit in the gardens?” he offered, extending his arm for her. “We could find a quiet spot to sit.” And if she were outside sitting alone with him, no one else would bother her. While Angelique contemplated this, another gentleman approached, dressed all in black and silver, with a long, beaked mask and a beading on his waistcoat that looked suspiciously like a human ribcage. 

  
“Would you care to dance?” The French was heavily accented and Francis stifled a snort, but the newcomer paid him no attention; the question was, of course, for Angelique. He saw her lips puff out slightly and he knew she wouldn’t say no, because Angelique was always polite (or at least never intentionally impolite), even if she was about to drop over of heat exhaustion.

  
“She would not,” Francis answered for her, stepping up to the gentleman. “But I will.” Angelique looked relieved at first and then clapped her mask in front of her face to hide her laughter as he continued on. He might’ve made it just a joke, but she laughed and he looked back at her with sparkling blue eyes to see her brown ones twinkling back. So he took the man’s arm and led him onto the floor while he sputtered and weakly tried to tug himself free. Francis brushed them off and put an arm around the man’s waist to lead him in the dance.

  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded at last, trying to change their positions.

  
“Dancing, of course,” Francis said pleasantly, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He resisted the temptation to glance back to see if Angelique was still laughing.

  
“I wasn’t asking _you_ , you lousy—” The man cut himself off sharply and Francis gave him a sharply amused look; he was sizing this prey up quite quickly. He had three guesses which insult he was almost party to and it most likely had to do with a certain amphibian.

  
“You had something to say, English?” He lifted his arm and, when the man didn’t do so of his own accord, nudge him to turn, if he wouldn’t twirl. He got the feeling the reaction was more out of confusion than anything else.

  
“Not to you,” came the curt reply; beneath the mask, Francis was sure there was a clenched jaw.

  
“So what are you dressed as? It’s positively repulsive,” Francis remarked, continuing to lead the Englishman across the floor despite his miniscule protests to escape.

  
“The Black Death,” sniffed his partner. “Which is a sight more interesting than whatever ridiculous get-up you have on,” he added. Their gloves were sticky with sweat and stuck together as they moved together and apart.

  
“The Black Death! Heavens, such morbidity!” Francis shook his head. “And I, my dear, am Apollo. Known for his healing abilities.”

  
“If I am morbid, at least I don’t fall into the self-inflated grandiosity that you have,” retorted the Black Death. Francis, rather than being offended, laughed, and the Brit bristled. The Apollo lookalike gave a predatory smile, warning his foreign partner that this was a dangerous game to play with a regular at Versailles.

  
“Oh no, the British are never known for such things,” Francis said mockingly. “Or rather, their heads are too far up a certain part of their own anatomy to realize it. At least we French can admit and admire our self-love.”

  
“Self-love? Self-infatuation is more like it,” the Black Death snorted. “You should have come as Narcissus.” They swung in close as the dance dictated and the Black Death’s chest was hot against Francis’, even through the fabric. He could see sweat beading on the Englishman’s throat and he licked his lips unconsciously.

  
“The world is so harsh and cruel at times,” Francis said, looking into the mask to catch sight of narrowed green eyes, the color of the lawn outside—or at least, the color it had been before this heat wave started to sap the hydration from it. “Why not love yourself? Someone must.”

  
“I can see why you would have that philosophy,” the Black Death sneered. He was only an inch or two shorter than Francis, but the Frenchman still enjoyed lording that over him.

  
“Don’t you think being alone is a tragedy?” Francis asked, changing their line of discussion so quickly his partner was discombobulated for a moment.

  
“I imagine it would be; would you like to inform me?” The dance was coming to a close, but Francis didn’t draw away just yet.

  
“Have some pity, English,” he said, a smirk toying with his lips; the mask only came down over his nose, so his full lips were still on display for the benefit of those around him. “Show me what it’s like to be loved.”

  
At that, the Englishman finally jerked away from him, scandalized enough to forget dignity. 

  
“You are an utter amoral wretch!” he accused, jabbing a finger at Francis, who gave a shameless, closed-lipped grin in return. 

  
“What can I say? My lady friend was exhausted and I knew she’d never be rude enough to turn you down,” he said, glancing back to see that Angelique had taken his vacated seat, as he’d hoped she would, and was talking with another lady. 

  
“Well it’s no wonder; it’s an oven in here,” the Brit growled. “Couldn’t you have all held this ball when the temperature didn’t feel like the devil’s ass?” As soon as he said it, his hand fluttered up briefly, as if to cover his mouth, before realizing the mask had done that for him. Francis sincerely hoped this man was not a diplomat; a slip like that hardly spoke well of the English crown.

  
But Francis laughed. More because of how horrified the Englishman was at his mistake than anything else. Those green eyes narrowed into slits as Francis wheezed, his shoulders shaking. At length, he did speak again, as the man was turning to go.

  
“Wait, sir, don’t take flight just yet,” he protested, catching the Black Death’s arm as he made to flee. “An excess of honesty never became a diplomat, but such are the faults of the English. It’s much too hot, I agree. It’s cooler in the gardens though.” He waved a hand towards the open doors leading out into the famed gardens of Versailles. 

  
“And what in the world makes you think I want to go walk with you after that show?” the Englishman demanded.

  
“Because I intrigue you,” Francis said, everything in his tone and voice challenging the Black Death to deny it. There was an extended pause where they just stared at each other, a silent war between their eyes. “And you don’t know my real name, or how to find me after this,” Francis added.

  
“Why would I want to know?” The Englishman was buying time.

  
“It’s Francis,” the nobleman replied, which was something of a trick answer—there were half a dozen Francises who passed through Versailles; the man would have no way of finding him without a surname (which of course he wouldn’t get unless he came with Francis to talk).

  
“Get lost,” the Black Death told him. Francis shrugged and acquiesced, half-suspecting that he had shocked the Black Death by doing as he was told. And if he was lucky, that would lure the man back to him later that night.

  
Whether he was specifically right or not, he did see the Englishman pass by him alone while Francis sat on a bench behind a veritable wall of a bush, fanning himself with his hand. He’d discarded his mask to give his face some air; even the masque wasn’t worth keeping it on anymore in this weather.

  
“English!” The man’s head snapped towards him and Francis glimpsed the edges of fierce black brows coming down over his eyes. “Come sit with me.” He patted the space next to him on the bench. “The stone is cool.” 

  
“I told you to get lost,” the Black Death reminded him.

  
“I know,” Francis said, smiling. The Black Death observed the Frenchman’s uncovered face for a moment. Then he took the proffered seat. Francis’ smirk of triumph was so small as to be unnoticeable to anyone who didn’t know him with the utmost detail.

  
“You’re an idiot,” the Englishman informed him.

  
“And you’re an ass,” Francis replied simply. The Englishman glared at him so intensely Francis wondered he didn’t start to smoke.

  
Ah yes. He loved captivating someone’s full attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/116531657640/fruk-34-please-d)


	8. Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrUK + the one where every lie your soulmate tells you appears on your skin

Every lie he’d ever told.

Every single one.

Arthur’s body was littered with “I’m fine” and “It doesn’t matter” and “No, it wasn’t me”. Those were commonplace—those wouldn’t betray any kind of information. But there were others too—“No, it doesn’t hurt” and “I love you” and “I trust him”. Perhaps these too, were commonplace. Was any lie unusual, when you had lived as long as they had?

Francis’ lips paused on Arthur’s ribs, and his eyes traced an old memory _—“We’ll be best friends forever, promise!”_

He remembered his own chirpy voice, and the eager, freckled face watching him, cheeks still childishly round. And he remembered the face of the man he had left, when being allies was no longer beneficial to him.

He sighed, and his forehead rested against Arthur’s chest.

“You promised not to read.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t even try, did you? You masochist.” There was nothing sexy or teasing in the accusation; Arthur firmly believed Francis enjoyed his own suffering. Why else would he go out of his way to be vulnerable to humans, and fixate so much on things he couldn’t change?

Francis’ worst lies were in the middle of Arthur’s back. He had read one once, when Arthur was getting dressed, and nearly thrown up at the memory it evoked. The voice, the touch, the darkness—his own silent, lying assent.

_I forgive you._

“I did.” Somewhere on Arthur’s body, Francis’ curly, loopy handwriting scripted the two short words out. He moved back, allowing Arthur to push himself up against the headboard. Sitting back on his heels, he looked guiltily down at his knees. Across the back of his hand was one of Arthur’s most famous lies.

_I don’t need anyone else._

They both exhaled.

“It’s not going to work, is it?” Arthur was the one to break the silence.

“How can it?” Francis murmured, his eyes finding something interesting on the gauzy curtains. “Every time I look at you I see—”

_I was a loved child._

“So do I.”

Gathering himself for an effort, Francis reached out and pulled Arthur’s hand free from his straw-blond hair, which it was worrying, and turned it over.

“Here’s a nice one,” he said lightly, testing a smile up at the melancholic Englishman.

_I hate you._

Arthur looked down, even though he knew well what it said.

“You’ve got that one too,” he said. Francis had it in several places, actually. One was stamped across the back of his neck in Arthur’s clipped, thin handwriting. He raised his gaze to Francis’ face, and saw on his throat, another one of his.

_It’ll be alright, you’ll be fine._

It crossed over the scar on Francis’ neck, the one from the guillotine. He remembered the boy he had spoken it too, and the terror in the soldier’s eyes when Arthur had left him in the mud, because there was no saving him.

Tearing his gaze away, he thrust a hand out, in an attempt to recapture their earlier momentum, and traced his fingers down Francis’ bare chest, over his abdomen, stopping before the hem of his trousers. His fingertips brushed over the thin blond hair around his bellybutton. Francis’ eyes were down, but when Arthur’s hand stopped moving, they trailed up his arm.

_I would never do that to you._

“It seems cruel, doesn’t it?” Francis said softly. “We can’t get away from each other, and yet we’re nothing more than walking memory banks. Of all the worst things we’ve said.”

“Not the worst,” Arthur objected. “On the contrary, I think the worst things I’ve said have been the truth.”

Francis almost laughed, but he couldn’t quite manage. He wanted to lean forward, press his face into Arthur’s shoulder, and feel his soulmate’s arms around him. There was a chance, he supposed, that Arthur would hold him, but not a very great one. He wanted Arthur to make it all go away, because that’s what soulmates were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Make you feel safe, content, satisfied? But Arthur’s shoulder bore bold words:

_I’ll take care of you._

And even if Arthur wanted to be close to Francis as much as Francis longed for his embrace, he pushed away these old memories even more aggressively than Francis did. Even if he had begun to crack through Arthur’s natural aversion to emotional and physical intimacy, the fact that his body was a walking representation of so many of Arthur’s regrets set him back two paces for every step forward he took.

_You can trust me._

The words marched solemnly across Francis’ collarbone. Their eyes met, and the memories had begun to pile up so much that Francis could barely see Arthur anymore through the haze of what had been, what he’d done. He pulled away, and got off the bed. Silently, picking up his shirt from the dresser where it was too neatly set, seeking out his stockings and shoes. He waited for Arthur to call him back, to protest, to say “Let’s try again”, but the silence withered his heart.

“Next time you’re in Paris…”

“We should…” Neither of them finished, and Francis looked helplessly at Arthur, wondering how long he could take off work to bury himself in the art scene in Montmartre before his boss came a-calling.

“I’ll telegram you,” Arthur said. The words jutted up Francis’ calf, wiggling underneath a few other decades’ worth of lies.

“Good. I’ll see you then.” Somewhere on Arthur’s scalp, beneath hair he swore was thinning too early, the words became life.

Out in the hallway, Francis had to pause, to lean back against the wall, and cover his eyes, and hunch in against the pain in his chest and his gut. They were like broken magnets, no sooner having attracted each other than they began to repel. The truth seared his eyes, and he wondered if they would ever be enough at peace with the past to make a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://thebeautyofliberty.tumblr.com/post/159238926602/soulmate-au-15-or-4)


End file.
